


Your Highness, Our Idiot

by notebooksandlaptops



Series: The Mage, the Bard and the Witcher drabbles [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Ballroom Dancing, Banquets, Dancing, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Humor, Going back home, Humor, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier has secrets, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Noble, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Multi, Nobility, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 01, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, and thats how we roll in this household, everyone in the ot3 is protective, loving siblings, rocky parental relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23032717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notebooksandlaptops/pseuds/notebooksandlaptops
Summary: Jaskier really should have told them before all this. He should have sat them down and explained his past, his history, and exactly what walking into that banquet hall would entail.But he hadn't. And now, here they were.-///-Or, Jaskier takes Geralt and Yennefer to meet his parents, which goes about as well as you can expect when Jaskier himself hasn't seen them for years - oh, and did he forget to mention his parents are the King and Queen of a small kingdom?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: The Mage, the Bard and the Witcher drabbles [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649053
Comments: 206
Kudos: 1106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one's set a little further into the future than the other fics in this 'verse (which you don't have to have read to enjoy/understand this story) - its post the immediate dangers of Nilfguard and Ciri's destiny so they are finally safe to be seen in public and can do about their 'normal' (normal for them anyway) lives once more.

“And done!” Jaskier’s fingers finally untangled themselves from Yennefer’s curls, the updo the bard had spent the past hour on finally holding itself in place without the aid of his fingers to keep it from unravelling.

She watched him flutter from the bed to reach for the small hand mirror left in his pack, and though he hid it well (or as well as Jaskier ever hid any emotion that settled in his heart) she saw it in the way his hands kept fiddling as if still playing with her locks.

_Nervous._

Jaskier was nervous.

Perhaps that was to be expected. This was, after all, his first time playing at such a banquet in many years. Once, she knew, such courts had been as common to his existence as the songs he played in them (and in inns, and on the road, and in bed, and anywhere, really, where he felt he could fill a silence). Jaskier did a shit job at hiding that he was _clearly_ noble-born, and even after he had left whatever backwater Lord or Lady who had acted as his parents, he’d earned his name and reputation in halls as grand as the one they would attend tonight.

Yet since Nilfguard’s rise, since their lives began to revolve around the protection of Cirilla, since they fled to Kaer Morhen, there had been little time for fancy banquets and the whims of noble courts.

But tonight the great Jaskier – Dandelion, the White Wolf’s Bard, the Troubadour of Troubles, the Singer of Adventures, one of the saviours of the continent – tonight he would have his famed return.

So perhaps the nerves were to be expected. Perhaps he had fussed so much over his clothes, over _Geralt’s_ clothes (much to the witcher’s grumblings) because of a simple case of stage fright.

Yet Jaskier sang at all times, everywhere. She’d never known him to be _truly_ nervous of any performance, except perhaps the first time he’d sung her the song he’d written to record her name into history (and what a beautiful song that had been, she had to admit, seeing how important she was to have inspired such tune – it had satisfied here in a deep way she could not name).

She narrowed her eyes at him but cast off her integratory gaze when presented with her reflection. And Jaskier had outdone himself on her hair, truly. She could have done something similar, but she had long since learnt that Jaskier had a _thing_ for taking care of his lovers (dressing them, bathing them, washing their hair, just _looking after them_ ) and Yennefer would not deny him it. Besides, having him sit behind her and do her hair for the past hour had stopped his fretful pacing, his fluttered movements. Sometimes, the nickname ‘little lark’ was earned far more than for just his singing.

“I can redo it, I should probably redo it, I could do a better job and you haven’t even shown me the gown you’re wearing—Gods, it might not even _go_ with the gown you’re wearing, I can—”

She placed a finger on his lips, halting the never-ending stream of words which war nor age had seemed to be able to beat out of him. “Stop,” she commanded, firm. “It’s beautiful. I’ll not have you mess it up because you’re fretting.” She stood, and her silk robe slipped just so from her shoulder. She watched it draw his gaze. “Relax.” She breathed, tilting his head to capture his lips in her own for a moment, soft and deep and slow. Perhaps, enough to slow down whatever thoughts were racing through her bard’s head.

He melted, for just a moment, and she felt satisfaction in the knowledge that she had brought his words to such a halt – any moment of silence from him was fought for and earned, it didn’t simply happen, much to her near-constant annoyance - until he pulled back again, and the moment passed, his nerves taking over again.

“Geralt should have stayed with Ciri – maybe you both should have? No, just Geralt. Geralt should have stayed with Ciri. Will Triss even be able to—”

“Triss is _more_ than capable of looking after our girl,” Yennefer sighed, moving to her bags to begin to choose her makeup and gown. “Ciri is more than capable of looking after herself, now, regardless. And Geralt is looking forward to your performance, whether he admits it or not – he wouldn’t want to leave.”

Perhaps that would soothe him – praise was to Jaskier as sunlight to a flower, and Geralt’s praise was above and beyond when it was handed in small doses or given by proxy through her.

Still the fiddling of his fingers. Still the pacing.

“Itches,” Geralt’s gruff voice appeared in the doorway with its opening and had Jaskier spinning towards him like a whirlwind of energy, and Yennefer knew his eyes were looking over Geralt as appraisingly as her own.

Jaskier hadn’t picked Geralt’s outfit to blend in like the stories she had heard of his failed attempt to do so when Geralt had invoked the Law of Surprise and destiny had tied him to Ciri. Instead, Geralt’s clothing – deep black but regal – had been chosen to highlight his features. The gold lace on sleeves and buttons matched his eyes, and the whole thing was form-fitting so as to leave little to the imagination.

It was gorgeous.

Or it _would_ have been – Geralt, however, looked about as uncomfortable in it as if Jaskier had asked him to wear a dragon’s guts to the banquet. In fact, Yennefer was certain that Geralt would have _preferred_ the dragons’ guts.

“It _does not_ itch – it’s the finest quality. Do you know how much coin that cost? And it looks fine, more than fine, you look stunning, nobody is going to be able to take their eyes off you,” although now Jaskier was fussing with Geralt’s collar, deft fingers finding invisible ills and trying to pick them away to no success.

What was _wrong_ with the idiot?

She stole out of the room just as Geralt deploy the same tactic she herself had tried just seconds earlier. She doubted that the witcher’s kiss would have much more success at subduing the anxious energy radiating off Jaskier like the scent of ale on the lips of a drunkard but at least it was a pretty sight to leave on.

Of course, she had no real need to steal away to the bathing room of the inn they were staying at. She’d bathed earlier, at leisure, with Jaskier attending her body and Geralt watching the way he always did when he saw the two of them together; like someone had placed before him all the great wonders of the continent together. (Oh, she knew the effect that watching them had on him, had had from the very beginning).

But she wished to wipe a cloth over her face, and better to make a grand entrance in once her dress was well placed.

She knew she looked stunning when she finally reappeared in the bedroom. Jaskier’s updo made her hair cascade in waves down her neck, and she’d picked the dress especially.

Oh, she had no way of easing Jaskier’s worries, necessarily, and she knew he trusted her to dress herself (unlike Geralt – he’d had Geralt’s outfit commissioned almost the moment he got the invitation to play at this banquet). But if Jaskier wanted them to look jaw-droppingly gorgeous, if he wanted to be seen on the arm of the two most striking people in that room, then she would grant him that wish.

She’d forgone her usual black; instead, the deep purple of her dress matched the purple one saw when one met her gaze. She was a vision in violet; fine lace that graced her arms as well fitted as if it had been painted there, the hem at the skirt pulled up just slightly at one side to reveal a slip of her leg. It was on the cusp of immodest, yet the bodice and waist fit the fashions of the day and the choker and ring she’d chosen shun with amethysts to accentuate the whole effect.

And oh, she knew how she looked. Gorgeous. If only by the tell-tale way that her boys eyes didn’t leave her for a moment when she entered, breaking apart from each other to stare at her instead.

The attention from them she had grown used to, but the feelings it inspired – of power, of fulfilment, of love – they never dimmed.

“See something you like, hm?” She raised one eyebrow.

Geralt stalked towards her like she was something he was going to _eat,_ lick her up until she was thoroughly debauched, but she placed a hand on his chest before he could lean in to claim her lips. “Ah, ah, ah. You’ll ruin the make-up, my love,” she ghosted her lips, so they barely touched his cheek, stepping around him to get to Jaskier.

Jaskier who was still flexing and fiddling with his fingers.

Gods above, what was this that had come over him? Not even _this_ was enough to distract him?

“You look good, Yen,” he said, and there _was_ awe in his voice at least, he wasn’t so nervous as to completely ignore how good she looked.

“Are you expecting your life to be threatened at this feast?” Geralt finally spoke up. He was less patient when it came to these things. Especially, she knew, when he feared for their safety.

“What? No! I haven’t slept with anyone's wives or husbands in years – I’ve been with you both! Nope! Nobody wants to kill me,” Jaskier intoned quickly – a little _too_ quickly, actually.

Geralt grunted, studying Jaskier’s face. The bard had hardly been unfaithful to them, but there _was_ something going on, evidently.

“Well. We’ll be off then. Get this fuss over with.”

Yennefer watched the way Jaskier’s throat bobbed in anxiety at Geralt’s declaration, but he picked up his lute anyway and headed to the door.

The inn they had been staying at was a grand affair for the grandness of their visit. After all, Jaskier was the entertainment for the evening – had been invited to perform especially, he claimed. Yennefer had inquired about a carriage to take them the short distance to the castle if such was the case, but Jaskier had – almost too quickly once again - declined.

“Been here before,” he’d insisted, “Know the back streets. No point in getting caught up in the rush.”

And so they set off. Yennefer was happy that the ground in the walled city here was firm stone and not mud. She wouldn’t have her dress dirty over Jaskier’s odd behaviour.

She had expected that they would arrive early; Jaskier would want to be there, of course, when everyone arrived to play them in and he had claimed that it would start around nine. Yet by the time they reached the gates, it seemed as if they were the last ones to arrive. From inside, she could hear the rivalry. She shot Jaskier a look, not at all comforted by the way he avoided her gaze.

Something was wrong here. Something was going to go deeply wrong tonight. She could feel it in the air. She could feel it in her lover’s uncertain footfalls, in the way that Jaskier had slotted his arm into Yennefer’s as if they were some proper Lord and Lady. Jaskier knew etiquette, yes, but he knew its rules so far as he _broke_ them more often than not.

A guard directed them inside – but the interaction only seemed to open up more questions. Unusually, Geralt was left to do the talking with the guard and it was rare Jaskier left Geralt to talk with _anyone_ – ‘puts people in a bad mood with his grunting’ Jaskier would insist, always doing so himself. Instead, this time, he became rather fascinated with Yennefer’s necklace, and all but hid his face examining the stones of it.

_Odd…_

Yet the walk was too short to the actual hall that the ball and feast were taking place in to ask too many questions, and Jaskier seemed determined to set a quick speed into the festivities.

And oh, the festivities were in full swing as they got there. The banquet hall was much the same as any noble’s banquet hall. Guards around the edges, a high table for those who wished to look important and distant from the crowd, dozens of ladies in dresses giggling over unimpressive jokes by men trying to charm their way to bed or engagement, depending on their standing. In the corner, a bard was already jollily playing his lute, enticing dancers onto the floor for practised jigs and shanties.

_Wait-_

“Jaskier.” Yennefer ignored the way that Jaskier was pulling on her arm to lead her down the stairs and into the room proper, head down instead of held high as was his usual way. “There is already an entertainer here.”

“What?” And oh, yes, he’d _known._ She could see it in his eyes, the way that he was oh so carefully avoiding her gaze, stalling, “Ah! Well, yes, but I will play a song or two, at some point. Really, it’s worth coming just for the party, is it not? We all deserve to have some fun! And—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled from Jaskier’s left. There was a lit to his voice, something impatient and – if you knew him well enough to tell – something worried, “what the fuck are we doing here? You’re hiding something from us.”

“Nope, no, definitely not,” but now they were into the actual ballroom itself, and instead of taking up with a conversation, or floating into the middle of the crowd, Jaskier was sticking firmly to the sidelines. “I’m going to go get us all drinks, shall I? They have good wine here—wine sounds _excellent –_ Yep, bit of liquid courage will go a long way, I imagine. I’ll just—” And before Yennefer could properly grab at him, or Geralt stop him, he was flitting away towards where the drinks were being served.

“He feels he needs liquid courage,” Yennefer muttered, shifting to take Geralt’s arm. There were people now, who had noticed them. Both of them were distinctive – not just for the effort they had placed into their appearance, but for their role in the continent’s recent history. Yet Geralt’s glower kept them at bay for now.

“Something is wrong.” He growled.

“I know,” she responded, as he squeezed her arm. “I thought he was acting nervous earlier. But this isn’t the way he goes about things. Did you read the invitation he got?”

Geralt frowned, “No. He simply said he’d been invited to play.”

“Ah.” Yennefer shifted, moving them closer to one of the walls. Her eyes glanced over to the high table; this was a small kingdom and she knew little of its ways or nobility. The King and Queen were both sat upon their thrones, but there was little distinctive about them that she could tell from this distance. Just another group of nobles acting like they owned everything in the world when history would barely remember them in a few centuries past.

She turned her attention to what else she could see in the room. Nothing of particular note, but perhaps they were missing something.

“Fucking _little shit_ ,” Geralt breathed and she turned to try and find what _he’d_ noticed.

But before she could there some commotion from the high table. The queen had stood, her elegant brown hair cascading down her back. She was the Queen, and all eyes fell upon her, on her pointed finger and – more importantly – on the shout she uttered like she’d seen a ghost – or perhaps like she’d seen a lost love. “Julian!”

Yennefer didn’t need to ask whether it was _their_ Julian. To expect anything less would be to underestimate Jaskier’s ability to cause trouble, which she’d long since learnt one should never do.

Had Jaskier brought them to the castle of somewhere he’d slept with the royal family – with someone who looked near double his age, in fact? Were they about to have to defend his honour from a _king_ of all people? Why come at all, if that was the case?

“Julian,” the king had stood now, and the hush that had overtaken the crowd had even caused the bard in the corner to stop his performance. He’d didn’t have the look in his eyes of someone who was about to avenge their marital bed. No, he looked just as shocked as the Queen, his eyes large and blue as the sky above--

Oh, _fucking hell—_

Her eyes darted away to finally see what had caught Geralt’s eyes before the commotion had broken out. And there, on the wall, old and framed, was a grand picture of the royal family and there – younger, but certainly recognisable next to the King and Queen – was Jaskier in finery.

“Hi. Mother. Father.” Came the croak from the direction in which the Queen had not yet stopped pointing. “Been a long time.”

Jaskier, it seemed, had not deemed it worthy to mention in all their time together that he was a fucking _prince._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support I've had for this story so far! It's really given me motivation to get this next chapter sorted out for y'all. 
> 
> Just a warning- Jaskier's relationship with his parents is pretty rocky. Nothing awful, but they certainly don't see eye to eye on everything. I'll put more details in the end notes for anyone who's worried they might be upset reading something like that.

Jaskier really should have told them before all this. He should have sat them down and explained his past, his history, and exactly what walking into that banquet hall would entail.

But he hadn't. And now, here they were.

-///-

The elegance of the great hall – the one that Jaskier had spent his childhood playing in, running across floors and tables to the shouts of many a serving staff – hadn’t faded, not in all the years that Jaskier had been away.

He’d half expected huge changes to have beseeched the walls, half expected to walk into a stranger’s castle instead of the palace he had grown up in.

He wasn’t sure whether this was worse.

His family’s colours – deep reds and bright yellows in bold contrast – adorned the walls and finery and the paintings had changed so little Jaskier might have wondered if all the artists in the Kingdom had simply died.

And there – at the high table – sat his mother and father.

Well _fuck._ Seeing them so suddenly reminded him of _exactly_ the terms they’d parted on.

Oh, being here was an _awful_ idea.

He tugged on Yennefer’s arm, setting a quick pace into the ballroom. She’d been watching him all night, and the stare had only gotten worse when he’d let _Geralt_ talk to the guard instead of taking the reigns himself. He could feel the suspicion emanating from his lovers like heat from a flame, but he was _firmly_ not paying attention to that.

He was too busy trying to avoid being seen.

_Not_ his usual way of things, and he could say he wasn’t quite practiced at it. He didn’t, as a rule, fade into the background. It simply wasn’t his way. Growing up as a prince, fading into the background had been _quite_ unthinkable, thank you very much. And Bards were hardly known for their humble modesty and wallflower ways.

_Fuck._ This really had been a _terrible_ idea.

“Jaskier. There is already an entertainer here.” Yennefer’s voice broke through the way his brain was jumping from panicked thought to panicked thought.

“What?” he asked, blinking at her as innocently as he possibly could. But _shit_ okay, she was using her _scary_ face, well then—he ducked his head away, became suddenly very interested in the lacing on Geralt’s (absolutely _gorgeous_ and totally wasted on someone who didn’t appreciate it) outfit, “Ah! Well, yes, but I will play a song or two, at some point. Really, it’s worth coming just for the party, is it not? We all deserve to have some fun! And—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled from Jaskier’s left and okay, not safe to look _there_ then either, apparently. “what the fuck are we doing here? You’re hiding something from us.”

“Nope, no, definitely not,” Jaskier really _should_ have told them. He’d been meaning to for weeks. It wasn’t like it was a _huge_ secret. It was hardly going to change their opinion of him (right? _Right_?). Except every time he tried he couldn’t speak it, and he was all but taking them to meet his parents and what if they refused? Surely it was easier this way. “I’m going to go get us all drinks, shall I? They have good wine here” in fact he _knew_ they did, his Kingdom produced some of the best wine on all the continent “—wine sounds _excellent –_ Yep, bit of liquid courage will go a long way, I imagine.” He’d need all the liquid courage he could _get_ , “I’ll just—” He ducked from Yennefer’s arm before she or Geralt could ask any more questions.

Okay. Wine. Wine would be good. Bit of wine, bit of a dance, stick to the side lines and then at some point try and find his sister and—

“Julian!”

Jaskier froze.

_Shit._

He’d expected to have a while at least. He’d changed, he knew. Perhaps not much in appearance, but he was so far from the boy that had walked out of these doors, the boy who had refused to come home and take up his duties all those years ago. He’d thought he’d barely be noticeable anymore, as who he’d once been.

He’d saved the continent. He’d wrote songs that earned him more fame than a crown ever could. He’d charmed (or _annoyed,_ as Yennefer always insisted) his way into the hearts of two of the most powerful people in existence. He’d helped raise Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra. He’d taught in Oxenfurt. He was _Jaskier_ now. Julian Alfred Pankratz was a memory, a dream, a piece of his past that had little relation to his future.

Well. Maybe he’d been a little optimistic about all that. Even a pissed off mother should be expected to know her own son.

Oh, and there was his father too, standing up and looking just as shocked, though his voice didn’t betray the frantic bid for drama that his wives did (let it never be said that Jaskier didn’t know _exactly_ where he got his dramatic streak from).

The memories of being told off as a child, of this exact scene (though usually without the ballroom of people to accompany him) – his mothers shocked outrage, his fathers shocked calm – hit him like a ton of bricks. Oh, joy of joys.

He took a deep breath.

He’d faced all the monsters of this continent, he’d be damned if this was what faced him down in the end. Julian Alfred Pankratz might be a little bit scared of his parents, but _Jaskier_ wasn’t scared of anything untouched by magic.

And. Well. If he was _going_ to make a scene.

“Hi. Mother. Father. Been a long time.” He said, loud enough for the suddenly _incredibly_ curious onlookers to hear. Somewhere, int that crowd of incredibly curious onlookers were Yennefer and Geralt, thinking Gods only knew what. But it was far too late to warn them now.

So.

He took a few steps forward, pushing down his nerves – and hiding fiddling fingers behind his back – keeping his head high; not in the regal manner he’d been taught as a child, but high in the way he’d held it since earning a life for himself outside of all this crap.

“Julian!”

And this shout was not shocked, nor outraged. He felt a smile break out onto his lips; not smug nor practiced but _real_ and bright.

“ _Zuzanna_!”

The girl barrowing towards him was equally uninterested in regal manners, it seemed, for all she was a princess. And oh, a princess fully _grown._

Jaskier’s arms enclosed around her, head buried in deep brown hair, holding tightly to her.

“I got your letter,” Jaskier murmured into his sisters’ ear. Just for her, not for the grand audience to their little reunion. “I’m here.”

There was nobody else he’d come back for, not really. Rubbing his parents face into what he’d become _without their aid or dignitaries_ might be a damn fun way to spend an evening (if seeing them didn’t wreck him with the nerves of a boy who no longer existed) but it wasn’t worth it. Not really. But Zuzanna he had _missed._ Zuzanna wanted him to come home – had asked him to come home because—

“And look at this!” he let out a joyous laugh; a hand pressed to the firm roundness of her belly. A child. His little niece or nephew carried right there in her womb. “You look about bursting! Do the healers have any idea when you’ll—”

A cough from behind Zuzanna – his parents – and he heard the footfalls from behind _him,_ the crowd clearly parting. He didn’t have to turn to know who could part a crowd so easily. His lovers were both known for their commanding presence, and that was true even when they _weren’t_ both dressed to the nines like he’d ensured they were tonight.

“We’ll catch up later,” Jaskier tossed his sister a wink, leaning to kiss her forehead (and lords, she was only a little bit shorter than him now – he remembered when she was half his height).

“Mother, Father,” Jaskier gave something of a bow (that was only _slightly_ mocking) stepping backwards once more until he could smell lilac and gooseberries proper, until he could hear the gentle sound of Geralt’s breathing. He was no coward, he hadn’t been for years, but he still felt far more secure when facing the family he’d left behind bracketed here between the family he’d chosen. “I’d like you to meet the great mage Yennefer of Vengerberg and the noble witcher Geralt of Rivia – saviours of the continent, along with yours truly, of course.”

And now that he was close enough, now he was looking, he could see _behind_ his father’s gaze, and into the mind of a king trying to work out the best way to handle this situation to avoid more scandal than it had already brought.

Finally, he clapped his hands together, “The Prince Julian Alfred Pankratz has returned! Double the reason for our celebration tonight, it seems.” He’d placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder, was already gently pushing her back down into her seat where she was still white as a sheet with shock beside him. “Keep up with the revelries, my friends! More music, more wine – and perhaps you’d come to the table with your…honoured guests, my son.”

The lute started up again, and – rather reluctantly – the dancing, people pretending to talk when they were in fact straining their ears to hear even a wisp of whatever would happen at the high table. Nobles were all gossips, every single one of them, without fault. It was the way they had learnt to spend their boring lives – having no reason to toil in fears nor the courage for grand adventures.

“Jaskier,” a soft voice from behind him, Yennefer in his right ear, quiet so as to be for Jaskier – and perhaps Geralt’s – ears alone, “if you surprise anything like this on us again, I will break your lute.”

Jaskier gulped. Nodded. Yennefer made idle threats in his direction all the time, but he doubted this was one of them.

He _had_ sprung meeting his parents on them, after all, rather out of the blue.

There would be grovelling to do later – and a lot of making up to be done besides. But Jaskier trusted his skills enough to know he wouldn’t struggle _too_ much. He knew what they liked, after all. Sometimes, he felt he knew them better than he knew himself.

“Your highnesses,” Yennefer did not curtsy nor bow (she did not for any man, of any station, and Jaskier loved her all the more for it), but she inclined her head just so as she sat in the recently vacated seat opposite the royals. And Geralt grunted, taking a seat one down from her, leaving Jaskier a place in the middle – so they couldn’t be _too_ angry about this, right?

“A pleasure to meet you, Yennefer of Vengerberg and Geralt of Rivia. The tales of your victories and great deeds have reached us even here,” Jaskier’s father’s eyes flickered to him for a moment. Had he been listening to Jaskier’s songs, by chance? Had he kept up with his sons’ career? Or had he tried to forget he ever had a son at all? Was this the first time he’d said Jaskier’s name in all the years Jaskier had been absent? “I am King Julian Patryk Pankratz – third of my name. And this is my wife Queen Adrianna. We welcome you into our home.”

“We thank your kindness, your highnesses. It’s a pleasure to finally grace the halls of our Jaskier’s childhood home,” Yennefer responded and Jaskier found his eyes flickering to her. Her voice had turned sweet as honey – as soft as if she were truly some common lover meeting the parents for the first time. While her posture dictated her presence (and her eyes, _oh those eyes –_ beautiful and powerful and the inspiration for dozens upon dozens of Jaskier’s songs), she was being…respectful. At least for now. He knew she had served in Aedirn, must have been part of a courtly procession, but to see it in person was another thing entirely.

_For me,_ the thought came, and he felt an odd pride in that, an odd warmth. For all her threats, she was showing how she cared. His hand under the table brushed against her thigh in a thank you.

“Yes, Julian’s _home_ ,” Adrianna seemed to have finally regained her composter, though she was still staring at his son like he might disappear at any moment, fade into a wisp of smoke.

Jaskier didn’t miss the way she dropped the word _childhood._

Oh, here they went.

“ _Actually_ ,” Jaskier’s other hand fell to Geralt’s arm where it was resting on the table (rude, but then, Geralt knew about as much about etiquette as Jaskier did about proper sword fighting) “I already have a home. Sort of at least. We go back to Kaer Morhen every winter.”

“The _Witchers School_? You’ve been staying in that filthy, haunted—”

“Yeah, actually. That place, where Geralt was _raised,_ mother, my _home._ I’m just here to see Zuzanna have the baby,” he shot a smile at his sister, who was looking at him apologetically. It was _her_ letter, after all, that had brought Jaskier here. And while Jaskier was more than happy to come now that everything had calmed down, if it would make his sister smile, it was—

Well. He still could feel his old self in these halls, trying to push him into the box that his parents had spent a lifetime trying to get him to fit into with no avail.

He wouldn’t be pushed inside it again.

He’d left. And he’d become who he was today. And if his parents weren’t proud of him, then that was there shitty decision, because they had _more_ to be proud of than if Jaskier had just sat around here and waited to inherit the throne.

“Julian,” his father leant forward, as if speaking some deep conspiracy, “you have had your grand adventure – we have heard all about it. Surely, you are ready now to settle. With your…particular credentials and history, we could find you a profitable and happy match to wed. You could finally stop trouncing around the continent like a peasant boy. Surely dear Yennefer and Geralt here need their alone time, hm?”

Jaskier felt Geralt and Yennefer both go tense beside him. It was a rather sensitive subject; the way that people tended to assume that Yennefer and Geralt were the couple, and Jaskier was just some unfortunate tag along that was stopping them from being able to live their lives.

Beside him a hand move until it was holding Jaskier’s in full view on top of the table.

And it was something he would have expected from Yennefer – because Yennefer was brass and bold and did far better to manipulate social situations like this one.

But it was _Geralt._

“He’s not available for wedding off,” Geralt grunted, almost a growl. Low and deep.

“Hm,” Yennefer agreed idly, and her hand was placed rather prominently on Jaskier’s shoulder. When Jaskier glanced over there was a dangerous glint in her eyes too, something of the sweetness that had befallen her when she addressed his parents earlier wiped away and replaced with the hard edge Jaskier knew and loved, “I’m afraid that we’re rather taken with him.”

Jaskier would have given all his coin and years off his life to have a painting of his parent’s expression at that.

_Priceless._

They looked as if they were trying very hard to hide their disgust after watching a dog piss in a vat of ale they’d later be expected to drink.

Jaskier winked at Zuzanna who sniffled a giggle into her wine goblet.

The King glanced between all three of them again, eyes lingering where they were touching, “So you are—”

“Very committed,” Geralt hadn’t taken his hand away from Jaskier’s. The public display of affection was unusual, but then, Jaskier had long since grown used to Geralt’s particular brand of possessiveness.

“Yep,” Jaskier confirmed. “Incredibly happy, very committed, very much not here to resume any duties of any kind. Like I said—my niece of nephew, that’s who I want to meet. And to say hello – and maybe to play a song or two, I’m quite a bit better than the gentleman you’ve got on tonight.”

His mother sighed, and there was now the pinched look of embarrassment coating her face, “You’re not some common _minstrel_ or _troubadour_ —”

“Nope, definitely not common. I’m one of the best in all the continent and trust me, it would be an absolute pleasure to hear me sing. There’s a few new ones about these two in the mix that need debuting – you’d be the talk of the courts if I did so here.”

“We’re not providing you a space to sing about your…dalliances,” Adrianna shot a look at Geralt and Yennefer, which would roughly be translated to _if you weren’t the most powerful people in the continent I’d have your head taken off._

Ha. Jaskier would pay to see them try.

“No, unfortunately, you wouldn’t be. Geralt has a rule about that, even though I have an amazing song about his big—”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Yennefer cut in, sweetness back in her tone, though perhaps not her glare. “Like we said, we’re very honoured that you’ve agreed to have us here for the evening. We’re sorry if we caused shock or surprise, Jaskier didn’t let us know he hadn’t mailed ahead to tell you.”

Jaskier sat back. Probably for the best that he was cut off before he could be _too_ much of a little shit, but his nerves were fading with his lovers beside him. He’d already denied their advances to get him to come back once – if they tried even dozens more times tonight he could manage it.

“Yes. There are many things Julian should do, that he doesn’t,” Queen Adrianna’s famous passive aggressive tactic – his parents were really pulling out all the stops today, weren’t they?

“It’s Jaskier now. At least, those close to me call me Jaskier, you’re welcome to do whatever you wish,” he stood up, “We’re going to enjoy the party. When you’ve decided if you can tolerate us, we’ll be out there. Otherwise, Zuzanna, love,” he turned to her, bright eyes, “we’re staying at the Inn just down the street. If we have to leave tonight, send word there when the water breaks, and we’ll come quick.”

Geralt and Yennefer followed him as he descended the steps, Geralt’s hand – still in his – stopping him from fiddling too much with his fingers.

“Well, that was—”

“You’re a _prince,_ ” Geralt growled, low. People were looking at them now they’d descended, trying to get closer, to position themselves enough to know what they were chatting about.

“Oh. Yes. Well, that little thing.”

“Your parents looked about ready to have our heads, I’d hardly call it little,” Yennefer snorted, though she had leaned in close to do so, so her full lips were all but brushing his ear. Perhaps it was to stop nosey passers-by, or perhaps it was to make a show of it.

“And you’re a _prince,_ ” Geralt repeated. There was something odd to his tone that Jaskier detected, something he couldn’t quite tease out.

“Can we just enjoy the party? It’ll piss my parents off to no end if they think we’re having fun out here,” Jaskier pleaded. He really _didn’t_ want to get into…whatever Geralt was trying to get into now.

“I didn’t come here to piss off nobility. The last time we pissed off Kings and Queens at a banquet—”

“We ended up with the greatest gift destiny has ever seen fit to give us all,” Jaskier concluded. Maybe Princess Pavetta’s coming of age banquet hadn’t gone to plan, but it _had_ given them Ciri, so Jaskier wouldn’t hear a bad word about it.

“If we’re planning on pissing them off, we should have some form of game plan. Honestly, Jaskier, if you’d just told us earlier,” Yennefer sighed.

“You’re telling us _now_ , is what you’re going to do,” Geralt gripped his arm, all but manhandling him towards one of the small doorways to the side of the hall, “take us somewhere we can talk in private, _your highness.”_

Jaskier sighed. Okay. Well. Probably fair. They should talk about all this.

“But then we’ll piss off mother and father?” He asked, half hopefully, big eyes turned on them both in a way he _knew_ they were loath to say no to.

“And then,” Yennefer agreed, “We’ll piss off your mother and father.”

Well. Sounded like a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warning: Jaskier's parents don't agree with his life choices, want him to come home, and are passive aggressive about who he's chosen as his lovers and the life he has chosen to lead. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Let me know what you thought! Comments and Kudos literally mean the whole world to me.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, _fuck._

It had always been clear to Geralt that Jaskier had spent a good portion of his life used to a higher ranking than a simple bard might get. Geralt had been well aware of it for years, in fact, he’d deduced it pretty much the moment he first saw the bard. Even scrambling around on the floor for pieces of tossed bread, Jaskier posture remained one of someone who _expected_ certain dignitaries from life, like he was _affronted_ at his treatment, or getting some private kick out of its absurdity.

Oh, and how he flourished in courts. Where Geralt stuck to the corners, well aware of how outlandish it was to have something like _him_ – monster, freak, mutant – in the sphere of lords and ladies, like some dressed up dancing bear for people to point and amaze at…for Jaskier, he _shone_ when put in such circumstances. He knew the etiquette, if only to go about the joy of breaking it and he dazzled in conversational circles Geralt could only describe as at best baffling, at worst a bore.

And then – the biggest clue - his optimism. People who had spent their childhoods watching their parents work fields and their siblings catch dysentery were rarely so optimistic about the world without the aid of herbs or gods.

Jaskier surely then couldn’t have fooled anybody with his act as a ‘humble bard’. He wouldn’t have done even if he could be described in any way as ‘humble’. Geralt was not above calling out how his lover could be bratty little noble at the best of times. He even gossiped like one, nattered on and on, unable to hold his tongue.

Yennefer, at least, appreciated someone who understood such fineries. It was yet another place where Jaskier so neatly filled a hole that would have been gapingly empty should he never have joined their relationship.

And yet, for all of that, Geralt had always made the assumption that Jaskier’s nobility was birthed from some backwater estate Jaskier had fled because of its crumbling foundations, because it could barely support its own weight. He had _never_ expected Jaskier to be prince – _heir_ – of an entire fucking Kingdom.

If Jaskier was _heir_ to a _kingdom_ what the _fuck_ was he doing travelling around after a _Witcher_ all these years?

“What the _fuck_ , Jaskier?” He breathed, when the door finally closed behind them, the sounds of the party muffled slightly through the brick wall. Geralt didn’t need the buffer though, there was no hiding what the crowd out there was talking about. Jaskier had made quite a scene, the little bastard.

“Yeah, see, I’d rather you _didn’t_ use your angry voice,” Jaskier had the audacity to say. Geralt noticed his fingers fidgeting at his side. He suppressed the instinctive the urgeto soothe him by taking his hand. Right now he wasn’t sure he knew how to without gripping far too tightly; to punish or to stop him slipping back to the high table, Geralt himself had no clue.

So instead of either, he focused on the room around them in order to calm himself. It was large enough, one exit currently covered by Geralt’s back and Yennefer’s gaze, a writing room just off the main hall, equipped with the long desk and the comfortable chair of a man who did business. His fathers’ room, perhaps? Or his sisters? An Uncle or Cousin? Who lived in this palace? What were the familial customs of the Royal family of Pankratz?

Fuck, this wasn’t helping. Geralt did not appreciate being left in the unknown during a fight and _this_ felt like a fight; one far worse than the simple welding of a sword and the watching of somethings head falling off.

Jaskier sighed as if incredibly put upon. Geralt knew him though. Jaskier was the most persistent constant in Geralt’s life, aside from his swords. Geralt could see through the bravo to the insecurity that lay beneath. Neither of them enjoyed the prospect of arguing with each other. That time on the mountain had broken something between them, and for all the years that had passed since, Geralt knew that Jaskier was…warier now, of Geralt’s temper. Not frightened, never frightened, but…aware that Geralt was more than capable of venting his anger on the wrong people, on the wrong things.

“ _Explain_ ,” Geralt grunted, finally, because there was nothing much that could go wrong in translation with _that_ at least.

“Well! It’s not really _that_ much of a secret – there’s not even that much to tell! It’s a tale that practically writes itself – a young prince, bogged down with responsibilities and seeing a hopeless future of bureaucracy and pretending he’s more important than he is, wants an _actual_ future, where he _is_ important, and he can do what he loves. Comes of age, runs away, meets a Witcher, falls in love with the Witcher, is healed by a mage after a djin attack, is heartbroken when the Witcher falls in love with the mage, is left behind on a mountain, finds the witcher again who’s now with the mage permanently, falls in love with the mage, finds out the mage and the witcher loves him back, raises a child, saves the continent, brings his lovers back to meet his estranged family and be present for the birth of his sister's child.” Jaskier’s words flew out of him, and usually when he was doing that Geralt was happy to let it become background noise, but not this time. This was _serious._ He needed to know, needed to understand.

“I’m not asking for the tale, Jaskier.” He growled out, finally, when Jaskier smiled at him like that cleared the whole thing up. He knew how Jaskier could twist words, brush up the truth so it looked like a pretty story. He'd been doing it to Geralt's life since the day they met. 

“Ah. Well. The second parts true, at least?”

Yennefer laughed. She’d perched herself up on the desk, her legs dangling an inch or so off the floor. Oh, she was _enjoying_ this, Geralt realised. Geralt knew that smirk on her face. He knew it intimately, had felt it pressed to his own lips a dozen times. Yennefer – while she may be many things – was a mage and all mages worshipped chaos. _This_ was chaos, pure and simple. No doubt her pleasure in that overtook her annoyance at Jaskier’s secret-keeping.

And for all his lovers might have been the most chaotic people Geralt had met, _he_ did not appreciate _this._

“Leave it, Geralt.” She said finally, when Geralt didn’t make a move, nor even grunt in replacement for speech. Geralt watched the way Jaskier gravitated towards her and the open vouch of support she was offering, “So our idiots got a past. He should have told us, he didn’t, we can torture him for that later in _so_ many fun and interesting ways. But for now, we might as well plan out how we’re going to get back at those stuck up brats – and I reckon having the _royal_ prince with his head between his lover’s legs in his father’s office will do _quite_ nicely, hm?”

Geralt gave them a withering look. He was not in the mood to play games like that.

“This isn’t the time. And his _past_ isn’t the _point_ ,” Geralt growled. It was hardly as if he had told Jaskier or Yen everything about his _own_ upbringing.

“And what exactly _is_ the point, then?” Yennefer asked. Her hand had fallen on Jaskier’s shoulder, sharp painted nails keeping him close.

Geralt growled, turned his face away. Their joint questioning gaze, their joint _judgment_ was too much to face head-on.

Even after all these years, the vulnerability that came with having lovers ached something _awful._ It felt _wrong_ – human connection was supposed to have been beaten out of him a long, long time ago.

And yet, here they were.

Because there _was_ a point to Geralt’s anger, but he wasn’t sure he even knew how to phrase it for himself let alone for them.

Except, _fuck_ no, that was a lie. It was easier not to phrase it, but he knew the point.

The point was that Geralt had always _known_ Jaskier had connections, that he could leave this life beside Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri that he’d chosen behind him. Even without connections, Jaskier could settle down somewhere as a court bard, be well kept and well cared for without the harsh realities of the world that a Witcher faced every day.

But not _this._

This was not just a little ‘out’. This was a life that he could see Jaskier leading and leading _well._ This was duty. What was it that the common folk said about Kings and Queens? They were born to their station in order to carry out their destiny.

Geralt had learnt enough to know that fucking with destiny never went well.

He had automatically rebuffed a King and Queen when they had implied they had a position and a marriage open for Jaskier. He'd done so quick and sharp and angry.

But what if—

What if Jaskier hadn’t _wanted_ him too?

It must be tempting, this world, this life, being a king with a _normal_ queen by his side. It must be more tempting sometimes than campfires and the cold. Jaskier revealed in courts, he flourished in them, and he enjoyed the fineries in life too, good food and good wine and good company, fine silks and lavish beds and the joy of well-fitted clothing.

Geralt clenched his jaw.

He had lost Jaskier before, once or twice but never permanently. Jaskier came and went with the seasons, but much like the seasons he _always_ came back.

Except what if he _didn’t_? What would Geralt and Yennefer do then?

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Jaskier’s voice broke the silence. Geralt studied the corner of the desk rather intently, avoiding whatever realisation he’d come to. “You’re worried I _want_ it.”

Jaskier had always been able to read him far, far too well.

“Hm,” he grunted.

“Geralt,” a lithe body slipping before his, hands gently pressed to his cheeks, firm and guiding as Jaskier always was. Where Jaskier could be scared, Geralt would face down that fear; monsters, beasts, blood, death. But where Geralt wavered, Jaskier had always been _firm._ Where Geralt stumbled, Jaskier guided with grace and not a bad word said on the matter. “How many times are we going to have to run this stupid conversation over until you get it through your thick skull that you and Yennefer are not some…consolation prize until something else comes along?”

Jaskier’s voice was unbelievably soft. It was the voice he used when they were bathing together, the voice he used when he was curling fingers through Geralt’s hair after a long day. It was gentleness and comfort and a dozen things a Witcher should neither want nor need. There had been a time when Geralt hadn’t, _Pre-Jaskier._

Geralt had thought a lot of things about himself, pre-Jaskier, which had turned out to be untrue.

“You’re a _prince._ ”

“I was a _shit_ prince, if you didn’t notice my parents disdain for me,” Jaskier shrugged, as if it was as simple as that, “Trust me. I got in trouble in these halls more than you could possibly imagine. I was never what they wanted out of me and I never will be.”

“You were born to this…destiny. You believe in that crap,” even Geralt believed in that crap, after everything, though he might voice his disdain for how much his life had been decided by a force beyond his control. If destiny existed, if there was order to this horseshit, surely it had better things to do than involve him?

Lady destiny had never agreed. She’d fucked him over and given him good all at once, but he couldn't trust she wouldn't take Jaskier from him.

But Jaskier just snorted. “This? This is hardly my destiny. Even if it was _fuck_ destiny. I’m not going to come back any time soon. They can’t _have me._ ” Jaskier’s fingers brushed over Geralt’s bottom lip, over his cheek, close enough that Geralt could see all the specs of light in those bright blue eyes. “I have a different family now. One I chose. Besides, being a King I’d have to sit on the high table instead of playing for the people – and I’d much rather _not._ ”

Geralt grunted, his hands finally coming to settle on Jaskier’s waist. He was close; Geralt would rather keep him there.

“There we go,” Jaskier murmured, quirking a smile, shifting his face upwards to give Geralt a small kiss to his nose.

Delicacy and care, Jaskier had always given him both. He’d assumed they’d come from Jaskier’s childhood; learnt traits. After meeting Jaskier’s parents, he no longer could be so sure. Jaskier, it appeared, was simply _like that._

“Hmm,” _lilacs and gooseberries,_ Yennefer shifting closer and resting her hands lightly on Jaskier’s waist from behind. “My stupid boys.” She spoke in a sing-song voice.

Geralt glared at her but she missed it – she was already ducking her head to press absent open-mouthed kisses to Jaskier’s neck. “I meant what I said, little lark, if you throw us into a situation like this again, for all its amusements, I’ll break your lute.” Her voice was low, and there was no joke in it but he saw the look in her eyes all the same.

“No. You won’t. You’re enjoying this,” Geralt countered, voice low, his right hand slipping back from Jaskier’s waist to help pull her firmer against Jaskier’s back. He could smell it on her, the excitement, the joy, the deeper scent that hinted at _exactly_ what she had planned for them both for the next ten or so minutes.

Yennefer’s smile was just as deadly as she could be and just as beautiful. “Maybe I am,” she allowed, “It’s always fun to wind up the higher classes – first clue that Jaskier was a noble, it’s far too enjoyable to annoy him, for him to be anything else.”

Jaskier snorted, hiding his face in Geralt’s neck, “and how does that explain how _you_ are so fun to annoy?”

“Oh, I know you enjoy far more than just annoying me, buttercup.”

“We really _should_ find a way to piss them off,” Jaskier’s voice had dropped low, and he was mirroring the kisses Yennefer was placing on his own neck on Geralt’s. He was skilled with his mouth; far more so than just for his singing.

“Yennefer’s suggested one earlier,” Geralt grunted, fingers shifting to begin to hiking up Yennefer’s dress skirt.

Jaskier’s laughter was bright and loud and for the first time that evening – as he began to sink to his knees between his lovers – Geralt couldn’t smell a hint of the acid stench of nerves nor fear.

-///-

The ballroom, when they entered back into it, was still thick with whispers and stolen glances. Beneath the music and the dancing, the scandalous return of the prince was near all that clogged Geralt’s ears. If he concentrated enough, he could pick out each strand, but instead, he let them wash over him as a discourteous hum.

Jaskier’s arm had slipped into his own at some point and Geralt didn’t bother to shake him off. Yennefer and Jaskier seemed quite eager for the little game they planned on playing with Jaskier’s parents, and Geralt knew they’d be a bother tonight if he ruined it too soon by not playing along.

“Julian!”

Geralt’s eyes fell on the girl who was moving forward – graceful despite the swell of her belly. Jaskier’s sister. It was clear that was what she was even without the familiarity they shared with one another (despite the years that separated them). Her eyes matched his near perfectly, her nose, the colour of her hair.

And then there was the fact that – unlike the way that most of the crowd watched him – Princess Zuzanna showed no sign of fear, distrust or distaste.

“Cousin Alfons won’t shut up about the dishonour you’ve brought on the whole family – and Mother and Father are _livid_ you sneaked off—look at your hair,” she reached up, but Jaskier batted her hands away.

“Ah, ah, ah, _livid_ is exactly the response we’re after,” Jaskier tutted, keeping his hair mused up from Geralt and Yen’s fingers.

Zuzanna didn’t even seem to find that distasteful. In fact, she barely even blinked. “It’s been decades and yet you’ve barely changed at all. Did you forget to grow up somewhere along the line?”

“Travelling with these two keeps me young in spirit, and old in soul,” Jaskier quipped, his hand squeezing Geralt’s arm.

“Ah yes, we have yet to be formally introduced,” Zuzanna curtsied slightly, before holding out her hand to Yennefer. Geralt raised an eyebrow as Yennefer shook it, easily, and then again when Zuzanna offered it to _him._ There seemed no worry on her about touching a Witcher or the most powerful mage on the continent.

Definitely Jaskier’s sister.

“I am Princess Zuzanna but forget titles – I’m hardly going to call you both by your extended dignitaries. You’re family, no matter what mother and father might say on the matter.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Jaskier beaming at her. She’d clearly made _his_ day, at least, even if Geralt felt a little thrown off by her.

“Come now, I’ve been crammed up on that High Table all evening – if you can believe it, Julian, Mother and Father are even worse about protection now I’m pregnant. They’re just _desperate_ for it to be a boy.” She rolled her eyes, hand pressed to her belly protectively. “I want to dance. May I steal one of your lovers, for a moment? I promise I’ll give him right back.”

 _Him._ And she was looking right at Geralt as if it would be perfectly normal for her to want to dance with a Witcher.

Geralt was shit at dancing. Ciri and Jaskier had given it their best shot at teaching him at Kaer Morhen in the evenings when they were trying to keep their spirits up. It had been bearable only because of the smiles it inspired in them.

Still, Yennefer pushed him forward slightly, and Jaskier was already waving the pair off with a cheeky grin on his face.

_Bastard._

He’d have a _lot_ of grovelling to do later, Geralt was sure of that much. The little session they’d had in the study wasn’t _near_ enough to compensate for this.

“Don’t look so tense, I’m not going to try and best you in battle nine months with child. Or perhaps you’d be more comfortable with that?” Zuzanna shifted so that she was holding onto Geralt properly, her slim hands on his shoulders. “I simply wanted a chance to talk to you.”

“About?” Geralt grunted. Usually, when nobles wanted to talk to him, there was something they wanted _dealt_ with. And that thing was rarely a monster. Oh no, nobles saw him as little more than a hired thug at the best of times.

“Why, my brother, of course,” Zuzanna said quite pleasantly.

“Hm,” Geralt followed the flow of the room. From around them, eyes were struggling to follow both where the Witcher was dancing with the Princess and where the Prince was dancing with the Great Mage Yennefer.

“You’re his lover. One of them. It seemed only right that you would be able to tell me how he’s been all these years – our letters have been few and far between of late. He’s been so busy, not that I can fault that. Saving the continent, I here, and raising a child. I do hope my little one might get to meet yours.” Zuzanna grinned.

Geralt, despite himself was…oddly charmed.

“He is…Jaskier,” Geralt did not know what else to say, “he is a pain in the ass,” a pause, a slight grimace, he wasn’t good at this, “but he is happy. And he deserves all the praise he gets – we couldn’t have done what we did without him.” His expression shifted to a frown, “don’t tell him I said such things. They’ll only go to his head.”

Zuzanna laughed. Geralt could hear her brother in it.

“He was _always_ a pain in the ass. He left here when I was barely ten. He came back a few times, not to the palace of course, but to see me. We met in the more unsavoury parts of town nobody would think to look for us. He’s…I miss him, terribly, but I’m glad he got to be what he always wanted to be.”

“And what was that?” Geralt asked, keeping them to the edges of the dance floor – if only to save them from getting too involved in whatever the jig was. It wouldn’t be good for his dignity, nor for the aches her body no doubt suffered with the baby.

Her eyes glittered, so much like Jaskier’s, “Someone worthy of a good story.”

“Hmm,” sounded like what Jaskier would want.

And Geralt supposed that she was right. Jaskier had achieved that goal well enough twice over.

“And Geralt? One more thing,” Zuzanna’s smile was sweet and warm as her brothers, but there was a harder edge in those eyes now, “if you hurt my brother, I will find a way to kill you. Even if it means training for all the young years of my life, I _will_ hunt down a Witcher. And I’ll win.” She leaned up, pressed her lips to his cheek.

At her side, a man with a bush of auburn hair appeared. When he spoke, his voice was deep but filled with an undeniable warmth. “darling.”

“Ah, Feliks. Geralt, this is my husband, Feliks. I’ll leave you to go find your dear now, shall I?” She winked, slipping out of Geralt’s grasp and into Felik’s.

His eyes searched for Jaskier and Yennefer, unsurprised to find them at the centre of the room. Both adored attention – and that was when they _weren’t_ trying to piss off local dignitaries. Yet they deserved the stares they were getting.

They were elegant together. Beautiful. They flowed to the tunes the bard was singing, bodies moving in perfect tandem to create a scene that was far more than simply for the joy of it. It was a _show._ Geralt noted the way Jaskier’s hands slipped a tad lower on Yennefer’s back, towards her ass, the way that Yennefer’s body kept pressing into touches that were just shy of indecent.

Geralt had always liked the sight of them together.

Yet he could hear the sounds from the high table, the discomfort, especially from one lecherous looking man on the side of the Queen. Perfectly handsome, except for the sneer and the look in his eyes and the mutterings Geralt’s enhanced senses could pick out above the crowd.

“May I cut in?” He grunted, moving to place a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. No point in getting them kicked out.

“Ah, Geralt! Zuzanna’s done with you then,” Jaskier grinned, slipping from Yennefer after granting her a kiss on the lips that went on for a _second_ too long.

Oh, they were _very much_ enjoying this. Geralt could see it on their faces, smell it on them. Now Jaskier had his lovers backing, now he knew where he stood with his parents, his nerves had dissipated somewhat. He looked as free and as happy as ever at court, even if there was something vindictive in his eyes that spoke of payback.

“You want a dance,” Jaskier tugged his arms so they were looped around Geralt’s neck, “Hm, sounds perfect. Even if you’re hardly a match for me.” He watched as Yennefer moved to the sidelines once more. “How did my sister treat you?”

Geralt grunted, trying to move them closer to the edge of the dance floor, “she wanted me to know if I hurt you, she’d kill me.”

“Ha! She would as well, you know.”

“I got that impression,” Geralt squeezed the hand at Jaskier’s side. “Careful,” he murmured, dropping his face close to Jaskier’s ear, “Zuzanna is wonderful, but your family are getting more than simply pissed at your tirade. You still want to be invited back for the birth of your sister’s child.”

“Oh, please. Zuzanna would find a way to get me in here if she needed, no matter what those old crones had to say on the matter” Jaskier rolled his eyes, glib even in the face of the severity of the situation.

Fucking Bards and their lack of caution.

“You still pissed?” Jaskier asked after a moment, touching his hand to Geralt’s shoulder blade lightly.

“Hm. No.” Geralt watched him, “It would not be hard for you to have this life though. From what Zuzanna said, your parents are more interested in a male heir.”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier laughed, “my family is long lived. If they haven’t announced Zuzanna as true heir by the time they kick the bucket, then they’re fools. She’s got more political sense in her right pinkie than I have in my entire body – than my father has in his whole castle.”

“Hm,” Geralt wondered if that would be the way of things. People weren’t always kind to the women in this world; it was harsher for them, in the noble circles at least. But Zuzanna had confidence and charm. She’d go far, he was certain. He just hoped the road was smooth for her.

“I wouldn’t leave you and Yen,” Jaskier repeated, soft, “You can’t get rid of me, Geralt. You’ve tried before, and you’ve failed, and you’ll fail if you try again. I’m in this.”

And Geralt knew that. He _knew_ that. Jaskier said it often enough, didn’t he? Of all of them, was it not Jaskier who was the most affectionate? Jaskier who refused to put up with their bullshit? Jaskier who dragged them to the baths when he realised they were feeling like shit – or, worse – got them to _talk_ about it.

Jaskier had been in this since day one.

“Come on, let’s get you off the dance floor,” Jaskier patted his arm, tugging him towards the side where the wines were being served. Geralt supposed that was fair – he hadn’t gotten his liquid courage before, though it didn’t much seem like he needed it now. “I’m thinking of asking the bard for a go – might do one of the bawdy ones, crowd favourite _and_ liable to irk my family.” He was already slipping his lute case off his back, pulling the elvish wood free from the satchel. “You know, it’s times like this when I wish you’d let me write songs about our time in bed together because they would really come in handy and—”

“ _Julian._ ”

Fucks sake, were all of Jaskier’s great extended family members _ever_ going to leave them alone, tonight?

Only this one wasn’t Zuzanna with her warm laugh, nor even the King and Queen with their passive-aggressive smiles and politeness. This was the one who’d been sat next to the King and Queen, talking about dishonour ten or so minutes ago.

_Ah, fuck._

Geralt tensed, let his body language become far less relaxed. His hand was firm where it came to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Uncle Alfons, all decked out in green—that was really in last season,” Jaskier’s eyes glittered with something like overconfidence and challenge, though Geralt noted that he didn’t move out of Geralt’s personal space either.

If this were ten, fifteen years ago, it could have been a time when Geralt was acting as Jaskier’s bodyguard at some lord awful feast, while Jaskier tried to hide the fact that he’d slept with half the people in the room – much to the dismay of their angry spouses.

“Oh yes, my _style_ is the grandest issue here. Not the disgrace you bring to yourself here – unmarried, with two…what was it you’re calling them? _Lovers_? What a charming word for being kept about as a whore.”

Geralt felt Jaskier stiffen under his fingertips.

“I’ve told the King and Queen that you’re probably under some spell. That mage, Yennefer, she has _quite_ the reputation. I always suspected _something_ was wrong, when you started writing songs about a _beast_ – but now I see it’s likely not even your fault at all. I wonder if, after she cast it, she even had to pay attention to your little dick, or if it's gone neglected all these years.”

Geralt growled low in his throat, but it was Jaskier who spoke. His voice of melodies was grated, deep, angry “You need to be really, _really_ careful, Alfons.”

“Or what? You have no power here, Julian. You _left._ You brought dishonour on us by doing so, and now…well, just look at the company you keep. That mage…you realise their beauty is all glamour and lies? —you’ve likely been sleeping with something more grotesque than the monsters you write about in your spare time, she certainly seems to have the personality of a—”

Alfons shut up.

Geralt had been about to sort that, no matter the scene it caused (fucking _nobles_ thinking they could say whatever they liked) but it seemed that his intervention was unnecessary.

Because Jaskier had sorted it.

By hitting Alfons over the head.

With his lute.

“You speak about her again, and I will fucking _stab_ you,” his bard was hissing in the sudden silence of the room. The music being played at the other side for the dances had stopped at the awful sound of wood on skin, the strings twanking awfully, half broken.

A lute that Jaskier had carried around since he met Geralt, that he’d cared for more than anything else in the world, broken for Yennefer’s honour.

“Have you lost your fucking mind? You truly _have_ gone feral,” Alfons spat, but there was less surety in his eyes now. Instead, fear was rolling from his scent in acid waves as he scrabbled backwards, holding a hand to his bleeding nose.

“And you’ve not changed a _bit,_ you sick pig,” Geralt could feel Jaskier almost straining towards his cousin, the only thing holding him back being Geralt’s hand on his shoulder. Geralt kept it there. The hit might have been well deserved, but he feared Jaskier might start kicking the man, should his rage go unchecked.

There was a movement in the room from their left – seemingly the only movement, Yennefer suddenly at their side, collecting lute pieces without a word. Her violet eyes met Geralt’s above Jaskier’s head and he knew that even she was thinking it; the games were up for tonight, it seemed. Jaskier had just put a rather sudden end to them.

“Julian!” And there it was; another cry of a name Jaskier oh so rarely went by.

“ _What_?” Julian spat, turning to face the Queen without any of the dignitaries she would require, just an annoyed boy facing a keyed-up family.

“Do _not_ take that tone with the royals. Apologise to your cousin. How dare you—”

“How dare _I_? How dare _he_ insult one of the saviours of our continent, the only reason you all get to stand here today acting like you’re oh so _important_ and better than everyone – all your revelries would be cut to _shit_ without these two – without _me_ and you’ve done nothing but act like we’re a damned outbreak of rats in your kitchen all evening.” Jaskier was livid. Geralt had seen him like this before, where the sunshine and warmth left him, but it was oh so rare. “He deserved everything he _fucking_ got.”

Jaskier grabbed for Yennefer’s hand, “we’re leaving. When the baby's born, we’ll be here, but until then, don’t even _think_ about us.”

And he turned on his heel and stormed away.

Yennefer sighed, clutching the broken lute pieces and following. Geralt gave one last glare at those around him, half daring them to say something. Even the mutterings seemed to fall silent.

Well. That was certainly _one way_ to end the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh B O I, writing Geralt is so fucking hard. I don't know how all y'all talented people do it. I wanted to try my hand, but I think I'll be mostly sticking to Yennefer and Jaskier from now on. He's just...so hard to get in character. 
> 
> But! I hope you enjoyed this addition to the story anyway. Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments, I get so happy at every single one. The outpour of support for this story fills my heart with joy.
> 
> Also, if you hadn't noticed, I've increased the number of chapters I plan to give this. The muse came and gave me more plot, and who am I to deny her urgings?


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier had yet to stop pacing.

 _Back and forth, back and forth,_ wearing down the floorboards of their room like he was determined to rid the inn of them altogether. His movements were fast, agitated, annoyed. Yennefer had never seen him so riled up, and she’d waged war against all of Nilfguard with Jaskier by her side. Her eyes caught on his left hand where fingernails dug into his palm, her ears just catching the barely-there muttering he was repeating under his breath like a mad man.

It was not a situation she could say she was used to. Usually, it was Jaskier who calmed her and Geralt down. It was Jaskier who would sing them to sleep, Jaskier who would treat them oh so gently when the world had been nothing but rough, Jaskier who brushed away anger with nimble fingers and kissed away pain from their skin with full lips.

Apparently, tonight, their roles would be somewhat reversed.

Geralt had already tried getting him to stand still with heavy hands on Jaskier’s shoulder, but Jaskier had shrugged him off and continued his pacing regardless. He looked so caught up in the back and forth motion, she wondered if he even noticed they were there; if he even noticed where he was.

And all of it _for her._

Geralt had explained briefly what the prattish looking man had said to piss Jaskier off so on their way back to the inn, Jaskier stalking ahead of them, his heavy footfalls echoing off the cobblestone.

She had seen Jaskier get into bar fights about Geralt’s reputation dozens of times, seen him defend the witcher with words and melodies and fists. Her own reputation though? That was more slippery. She knew she wasn’t always well-liked, but more often than not speaking out against a mage like her would get you killed, so people were a little more willing to hold their tongues in her presence.

At least, men who weren’t self-entitled nobles like the one that Jaskier had hurt tonight.

And though she wished the evening hadn’t ended quite so violently she was…warmed, by the gesture. She’d collected over the years each and every jewel of proof that she and Jaskier were close beyond their shared love of Geralt. She knew Jaskier had loved Geralt long before she had come into the picture, just as she had loved Geralt before she had loved the bard. Perhaps she no longer needed to worry about such things, but underneath her bravo lay the insecurities of a young hunchbacked girl certain she would never be loved. And this seemed another rather definite piece of proof she could hold that Jaskier did _indeed_ love her.

Still, regardless of if the gesture was warming to her, they really needed to calm Jaskier down. At the very least they needed to get him wrapped in heavy furs and their arms; needed to get him resting and still instead of all this frantic movement he was indulging himself in.

Keeping her moves slow, she stepped towards the bed and began to lay out the lute pieces she had collected.

This was Jaskier’s most prized possession, she knew. Not his bath salts, nor his fancy clothes, nor even the songbook he was constantly jotting down little notes in. It was the _lute_ that he treasured. She’d heard the story of its acquisition many a time, and with many a different inflection and twist, but she knew that its importance lay less in its retrieval from the elves and more in it being a token of the first adventure the bard had accompanied Geralt on.

And he had wielded its valuable bulk like a weapon, just for her.

Emotion was power; it was chaos, it was untameable, and it made her _stronger._ But there was more than just magic in the giving of intense feelings. There was this – Jaskier’s complete and utter disregard for his most treasured possession, all for her honour and safety. It was a different kind of power, but it was power all the same. Power she held over him, and power he used in her name.

Jaskier was muttering something about how he never should have come back under his breath while she ran her fingers over the splintered wood, getting a feel for it, for the elvish handiwork. It was an exquisite instrument, that she could appreciate. Or at least it had been before it had been smashed over the head of a pompous prat.

But it was more than just its make that made it so exquisite a lute. It was the fact that it had _Jaskier_ on it. She could feel how its energy had tainted it over the many decades he’d carried it so that lute and owner and song could be as one. Jaskier had spent years strumming it, tending to it, coming up with masterpiece after masterpiece while holding this woodwork. She had watched him do so.

It would do no good for it to remain in such a pitiful, broken shape.

She let her eyes leave it for a moment, to find Jaskier and focused on the shape of him instead. On his pacing, his movement, his eyes, his hair, his mouth. Better to mend it properly to get a feel for the owner and not just the instrument. And oh, how she knew the owner. She knew what his skin felt like beneath her touch, where to find his scars, where to press her lips to make him moan, where to press her fingers to make him laugh. And keeping all of that in mind - for all the lutes magnificence - it was a trifle thing to fix. Easy. Simple.

When she ceased her magic, Jaskier had finally, _finally_ stopped his pacing.

He was staring at her, and at the mended lute in her hands.

“ _Yennefer_ ,” he breathed, like a prayer, stepping forward once, twice, coming to a halt at the end of the bed.

She could still feel the tension radiating off of him. He’d had a stressful night. Yet the look in his eyes was so full of _awe –_ awe at _her_ \- it almost took her breath away.

Since almost before she could remember she had dreamed of being important to someone. Of being _loved._ A bastard child who her ‘father’ couldn’t stand the sight of and who her mother saw nothing but guilt in, love wouldn’t have been easy to come across even if she _had_ been born a natural beauty. She was starved of it. And so she had looked for it like someone famished with all the craze and idiocy of youth. She had looked for it everywhere, for renown, power, glory. She had sought fame and riches and beauty, anything to make herself more appealing, and when that did piss all, she’d sought a child.

It was funny, looking back on that part of her life. She would always wish for power, but she’d found it now in an …unusual source. She _was_ important. She was important to Geralt and she was important to Jaskier. In their eyes, she was everything – all without having to drape herself in things she was not. To them, she was exactly who she was. They stripped her bare and built her up to new heights all at once.

And she hadn’t had to bow to their needs and become part of boring-ass backwater life dressed up in romance to achieve it, thank fuck. Even back when she was young, she knew that wasn’t at all what she had wanted.

Yennefer handed the lute over, let their fingers brush. She watched as Jaskier spent a moment strumming a few simple chords. “Good as new,” he murmured, to himself, glancing up, “Thank you.”

“It was broken in my honour. The least I could do was fix it.”

But if fixing it had broken Jaskier out of the state of angst he had found himself in, mentioning the _reason_ it had needed fixing made the scowl reappear on his face.

“My _halfwitted fool_ of a family,” he breathed, clutching the lute tightly knuckles going white. Yennefer wondered if she’d have to mend it again before the night was over, with how firm his grip looked. “Who the fuck do they think they are?”

“Royalty,” Yennefer shrugged, “which they obviously think is synonymous with godly.”

“We saved the _world._ There should be—”

“What? Processions in our honour? Parades? Jaskier, darling, the world isn’t a fairy-tale from your songs. People look at us and they see power and it fucking terrifies them – they look at our relationship and they see something confusing and it _fucks_ with their head. Life isn’t an easy ride from here on out just because we protected them from their imminent destruction.” Yennefer had long since had time to grow used to the world and she knew it wasn’t going to magically stop being a fucked up place to live. She had lived four lifetimes over now, experienced the centuries come and go. Jaskier though…in many ways he was still so young. She knew he still saw the world as better than it was. It was something precious about him, but also a delusion.

Yennefer’s words were softened somewhat, though, by the way that Geralt stepped up behind the bard. She watched as the witcher ran fingertips over the bard’s neck, watched the way Jaskier leaned back into it, sagging just so as Geralt’s hands slipped round to begin working the intricacies of the buttons at the front of his outfit.

“Forget them, Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled, and though his tone was dismissive, Yennefer could see the comfort he was trying to offer from the gentleness of his touch. “You’re here for your sister. We’ll see the babe born, and then we can leave.”

“Ciri will be missing us dearly,” Yennefer added, just to see the automatic smile that came to Jaskier’s lips at the mention of their girl. Cirilla was practically a woman grown now, but Yennefer knew that no matter her age they would always feel like her parents – and she would always be the light of their lives.

“And now the war is over you’ll no doubt be dragging us to plenty of courts to sing your new songs – kinder ones than this one,” Geralt’s head had ducked to press open mouthed kisses against the skin of Jaskier’s neck while he helped him shrug off his clothing.

Removing the outer layers of her own gown for ease of movement, Yennefer crawled onto the bed before Jaskier too, helping him unlace his trousers.

They helped each other undress often. Usually, it was heated, touches everywhere, lips searching for purchase on any strip of skin they could reach, hands in a hurry to pull clothes from one another.

But this wasn’t like that. It wasn’t heat, it wasn’t fire. It was simply how they were _taking care of him._ Like he took care of them. And while she and Geralt had both been hardened in their upbringing and forged for things far more gruesome than comfort – for death and power and fighting – they could do this.

“That’s not the first instrument I broke in that house, you know,” Jaskier hummed. His eyes had slipped closed and he was leaning against Geralt’s back, tension pouring out of his shoulders. He had to be feeling at least somewhat happier, considering he waa starting up his near-constant chatter again. Yennefer let it wash over her as she pulled off his trousers and began work on his underthings.

“When I was a child, I broke the harp my mother bought me. It was _beautiful_ – the first instrument I ever really got my hands on. There were etched vines in the wood, and the strings were the finest quality in the kingdom. I loved it more than anything, more than life itself,” He sighed, and Yennefer rolled her eyes. Dramatic, always dramatic, their Jaskier, “Ah, but I had a bit of a temper back then. Not as bad as _you two_ much have had as children, I’m sure,” his voice turned fond for a moment, eyes fluttering open to meet Yennefer’s. “But still, a temper. My mother told me that I spent too much time with it – that I wasn’t attending to my duties proper. So I pushed it over the balcony in a fit of anger, let it crash on the front steps, and locked myself away in my room crying over its loss.”

Yennefer tugged him closer, guiding him onto the bed and pulling him down to lay on it, encouraging his head to lay against her bosom as he spoke about a childhood she’d never imagined for him. He wouldn’t have just been some noble pampered boy child, as a prince, though there would have been a fair amount of pampering. No, as a prince he also would have had _duties._ Far more expectation placed on his little shoulders. Perhaps that was how he managed to remain so care-free all the time now – he felt the loss of that weight on his shoulders every day.

Or perhaps she was just reading too far into it.

“You’re telling us you were always an idiot, then,” Geralt grunted, and Yennefer knew it was just for the indignant noise Jaskier would make, though Jaskier quieted when Geralt threw an arm around his middle.

Yennefer let one hand tangle in Geralt’s, the other play with Jaskier’s hair.

“We did have sex in your fathers’ study,” Yennefer pointed out, pleased when Jaskier giggled into her skin at the reminder.

He’d been a little shit tonight, not telling them until they were already _right in the middle of it._ But he’d also been stunning; winding up the royal family for his own amusement and then _hitting_ someone over the head with his _lute._

“Jaskier,” she murmured softly, fingers in his hair stilling for a moment.

“Hm,” he turned his face upwards, blue eyes bright in the soft glow of the candles in the room.

“I love you.”

It was not something she said often. She had said it twice before; once to Geralt alone, and once to both Geralt and Jaskier together. Emotion was power, after all, and the words themselves were giving a piece of herself over. But perhaps Jaskier needed to hear it tonight, and perhaps she felt it more intensely after she had seen the lengths he was willing to go for her.

His smile was all but dazzling – wide and toothy - as he leaned up to press his lips to hers, bumping their noses together. “I love you, too,” his eyes shifted to Geralt behind him, “both of you.” He offered Geralt a kiss to.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt said, quietly as Yennefer resumed the stroking of his hair and Jaskier settled back down against her.

Yennefer was quiet, while he drifted off, though she wasn’t yet tired enough to do so herself. Instead, she waited until he was snoring and half drooling on her breasts before she turned her attention over to Geralt.

Geralt had stripped off the ridiculous outfit Jaskier had placed him in, shirtless and pensive where he lay.

She did not have to be adept at reading minds to know where his thoughts had run off to.

“Still intimidated by it?”

Geralt grunted, “I’m not intimidated by nobles.”

Yennefer laughed – a soft noise – “no, but you’ve always been a little intimidated by him.”

“Jaskier is about as intimidating as a dormouse, most days.”

 _Most days_ being the operative term. Yennefer had seen Jaskier’s temper, seen him get involved in bar brawls and write scathing comments into his songs. But it was a hidden intimidation. Not one that she thought anyone would truly notice at first glance.

“Not his fighting abilities.” Yennefer tutted. Sometimes her boys were truly foolish, couldn’t see what was right in front of their faces, “his friendship. His love.”

Geralt was quiet for a long moment, so long she thought he might not answer her at all. It wouldn’t surprise her. She had grown used to silence from Geralt – if she wanted lively conversation she’d turn to her bard, not her witcher.

“It’s—I never expected this life,” Geralt grunted out finally.

Yennefer knew what he meant.

She might have longed for love, but she had little concept of its realities before she had found herself with Jaskier and Geralt. She had wanted…adoration, perhaps, before, more than love. She might have wanted a child too, but motherhood was a dream she had stolen from elsewhere, and one that she had thought would be forever out of grasp. Being a mother to Ciri had been oh so different to what she had expected.

But, in some odd way, it had worked out for the best.

“Hmm, never thought you’d get two lovers so pitifully out of your league,” she teased.

Geralt rolled his eyes, shifting just slightly so his lips could touch hers.

“Come. No doubt he’ll get us into more trouble tomorrow.”

“Now that, I don’t doubt,” Yennefer glanced at the snoring bard on her chest. By no means was he someone who knew how to stay out of trouble. Hadn’t tonight proved that well enough?

Yes, she thought. There would be trouble tomorrow. But tonight, they would sleep.

-///-

Come morning, Jaskier was in much higher spirits, unfortunately for Yennefer and Geralt.

He had pulled them from their rest early, bouncing on the pads of his heels as he tried to hurry them into getting dressed. “Come along, come along! Things to do, places to see! We won’t be here for long and this is where I grew _up._ We can go to the market – oh! I could show you…no, no, we should _definitely_ head to the river or—oh! The gardens are just stunning, the ones on the edge of the city – or! The vineyards! But they’re quite a walk away, so maybe that would be better left for tomorrow. Or--”

The stress from last night was forgotten – or, Yennefer suspected more accurately _hidden_ – underneath the enthusiasm for the day ahead.

Geralt shared a look with Yennefer as he shrugged on a black shirt. Jaskier was going to be _exhausting_ today.

“Go on down to the tavern and order us breakfast, little lark,” Yennefer pressed her lips to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, “we’ll be with you shortly.”

“Alright, okay, but _don’t_ start anything without me like the _last time_ I left you in an inn on your own to go get food—we don’t have time for messing about between the sheets. Did you see Zuzanna? She looked about ready to pop yesterday!”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. Jaskier, it seemed would never let them live down that particular incident.

“Off with you,” She shooed.

Jaskier stopped to give Geralt a kiss too, before all but bounding towards the door.

“You’d think such an intense night as last night would wear him out,” Geralt grunted as he laced his breaches.

“You’d think,” Yennefer agreed.

If there was something on this earth that wore Jaskier out though, they had yet to find it. He was the one _without_ the high refractory period in their relationship _and_ he was always the one who wanted to go another round _please Geralt, Yen, please, just one more time._

Downstairs the tavern was near empty and it wasn’t hard to find Jaskier, though Yennefer’s eyes shot up when she noticed he wasn’t sat alone. Not an oddity in and of itself – Jaskier could make friends wherever he went – but she recognised that bush of auburn hair. The man had been at the High Table last night.

“Ah! Yen, Geralt!” Jaskier waved them over, “My brother in law, Felik. He came to check in on us after last night- apparently we caused an awful stir, so he recons staying clear of the castle might be a good plan, not that we were planning on going there anyway, about the least interesting place in the Kingdom – sorry Felik.”

“Yes, I met Geralt last night,” Felik held out his hand, “And Yennefer,” he brought her hand up to kiss her knuckles gently, “Charmed. Apologises for the sour turn things took. I told Zuzanna inviting you here would cause strife for you, but she simply wouldn’t have the baby born without their uncle.”

Yennefer nodded, taking her seat. Felik it seemed, had elected to have breakfast with them. She knew they were getting stares from the other patrons. Even if her, Geralt and Jaskier weren’t recognisable at a glance, the princesses’ husband certainly was.

“We’re taking the upmost precaution,” Felik was saying, as they finished off their eggs. “But Zuzanna is hard to keep in one place. Motherhood isn’t liable to change that, I don’t think. It wouldn’t be so bad but there’s been…well. Some threats against the crown of late.”

Geralt grunted, and though to anyone else it might come off as disinterested, Yennefer knew better. It was the first noise he had made throughout the conversation. He was a Witcher. Threats were how he got his coin, what he swam in, lived in. Even if he claimed not to get involved in the petty charades of men, Yennefer had never met someone _more_ involved.

“Oh, nothing serious,” Felik was quick to assure, perhaps a little too quick, Yennefer noted. She saw the other two notice it too. “Some believe that the King and Queen have been on the throne too long, what with how long-lived your family are, Julian – and after the war that raged the continent, our kingdom isn’t as wealthy as it used to be. Plenty of minor unrest, but no riots yet. Just a few threatening letters.” He shrugged.

“Hm,” Geralt tilted his head at Yennefer’s side, studying Felik intensely.

“Well, anyway, must be off. I’ll send word, when the baby is on the way. It was lovely to get the chance to talk more with you Jaskier, Geralt, Yennefer.” And with a short bow he was out the door.

“Interesting,” Yennefer mused.

It _might_ be nothing. But then, it _could_ be something. If _she_ was in Zuzanna’s position, about to have a baby, with a brother who she knew had close relations with two of the most powerful people on the continent, she’d want him close by.

Or perhaps she was seeing dangers where there were none. Zuzanna was smart, but she also was as affectionate with her brother as any siblings might be. There was no reason for her to have ulterior motives in bringing them here.

“So, where are we starting then?” She asked Jaskier, half as a distraction. The bard was chewing on his lower lip, and she knew all their thoughts were heading in the same direction.

“Oh! The marketplace first, I think. I’d like to get something, for when the baby is born. And then the river.”

And so they spent most of the day traipsing around the capital, letting Jaskier show them this or that, or tell them some story from his youth. It was the sort of day she would have despised years ago, but now it didn’t feel too much of a burden. Jaskier was smiling, at least. That had to be worth something.

And it helped, that Jaskier bought her a pair of purple jewelled earrings from the marketplace, of course.

“You really think that she’ll like it? It’s just a small thing, but if we charm it, then-“

“She’ll love it.” Yennefer cut Jaskier off, handing back the little object, charm intact. They were lazing by the river now, Jaskier having found them a relatively quiet spot.

“Rivers remind me of our first meeting—Geralt fishing for that djinn, oh, he’s _awful_ at fishing and the bloody pain in my throat- and you holding a knife to my cock, of course, can’t forget that.”

Yennefer smirked, “no. You seemed rather averse to the thought you’d bedded me then.”

“I was a fool, Yennefer, my love, forgive me,” Jaskier leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Jaskier, Yennefer,” Geralt had stood, and now he was staring towards the treeline. Jaskier jumped up, placing his body beside the two of them. “Horses.”

For a moment, there was tension, but when the horses broke the treeline, they were in the colours of the royal family.

“Prince Julian, we have been looking for you everywhere.” It was the guard who had been on the doors the night before, the one who Geralt had had to speak to so Jaskier could hide his face. And no wonder, Yennefer realised now, the guard was an old man. No doubt he would recognise Julian from his youth. “Your sister has gone into labour. We expect the baby soon. She’s called you back to the palace.”

He paused. There was clearly something he was not saying.

“Spit it out, guard,” Geralt ground his teeth.

“Ah, well. Yes. It is simply…the King and Queen say that they won’t welcome the presence of anyone but a member of the royal family.” The guard's eyes lingered on Yennefer and Geralt.

“Bullshit,” Jaskier spoke before she or Geralt had the chance to.

“Jaskier—" Geralt started.

“No. We can have this argument when we get there. They’re coming. And you can fucking try to stop them, but believe me, you don’t want to try and best us in a fight.” And there was that feral tinge to Jaskier gaze that Yennefer knew well should not be crossed.

Well. She supposed they were going then.

“Very well,” the guard relented finally. “Let us head quickly, so you’re there when the child is born.”

And so, they went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something soft and sweet for the gang this time, I thought. Jaskier needed some good looking after. I'm not 100% happy with this - but I thought we could go with a little bit of fluff and foreshadowing to get us to the next chapter where there will actually be a considerable amount of plot.
> 
> Comments and kudos make my day! Please let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> I love it when Jaskier is a prince of some small kingdom and just...forgot to mention it. So I'm doing that trope now too. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments! 
> 
> Come hang out with me on tumblr: [@Jaskier-wearing-dresses](https://jaskier-wearing-dresses.tumblr.com/) !


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